


there's nothing i hate more than what i can't have

by appleofmysirius



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Basically a Rom-Com, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Publicist! Reader, Soccer Player! Osamu, akaashi features throughout as a sort of phantom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleofmysirius/pseuds/appleofmysirius
Summary: Osamu engages his publicist to be his date for the evening at a gala, only to realise there’s way more to her than the hardass he’s known for years. It’s just that it’s precisely her hard-headedness and professionalism that frustrates him as he begins to grow a soft spot for her.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Reader
Kudos: 21





	there's nothing i hate more than what i can't have

**MIYA OSAMU HAS BEEN PLACED ON A HIATUS  
**

**BY Akaashi Keiji, sports correspondent**

_The Inarizaki FBC player suffered from a knee injury in his last match. Team officials say he’s been put on medical leave for five months. His return to the league is still up in the air._

That Miya Osamu was on a long hiatus is not good for you. Whether you liked it or not, the man was the face of the FBC. He was tall, lean and gorgeous, with sleepy grey eyes and rippling biceps, his existence on your team made your life very easy. Marketing him was a breeze- men wanted to be him and women wanted him.

His personality off the field was much softer than his aggressive on-the-field self, which made him an easy fit for marketing since he was so versatile. Though, it didn’t help that he had a penchant for going through models like a revolving door, which involved a couple of stressful phone calls and sleepless nights here and there as you fought to fend off the gossip mags, the malicious online comments and the court of public opinion. 

Marketing Osamu Miya was basically half of your work. None of the other players on the team had nearly as much star power as he did, so where they had one or two brand deals, he was being offered five. Part of your schedule included accompanying Osamu to all his publicity events, to the galas, the dinner parties, the press conferences, the photoshoots. In all of that chaos, you maintained the order with your strict professionalism and discipline. 

Now that he was injured though, you were left to deal with Osamu from the comfort of his home while he recovered. Sometimes you dreaded going in right after one of his girlfriends visited, for hygiene and privacy reasons and otherwise. He was your friend, but he was still someone you worked with. You believe very strongly in maintaining a degree of separation from him, to remain professional. 

The two of you were pretty close in age too, and grew up a few degrees removed from each other, so he knew a friend who knew a friend who knew you. Thus, the two of you became pretty good friends too. 

Just as you’re about to knock on the front door, you hear something like ceramic shattering and a loud yell. The door swings open in your face and some woman walks out, shooting you an icy glare. You hold your own, not shrinking back in the face of such unprompted hostility. 

You use her exit as your cue to step in, closing his door behind you lest there be any wandering eyes. Osamu sits on his sofa, arm slung over his eyes. 

“Osamu,” you sigh, already heading to his closet to retrieve his broom to start sweeping the shards from the broken vase on the floor, “You’ve got to start treating your girlfriends a little better than this.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he retorts like a child. 

“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” you roll your eyes. 

“Whatever,” he huffs softly, “S’not like yer believe me either way.” 

“Correct,” you tut, guiding him back down to the sofa. You peel back the protective guard on his knee to examine the damage, relaxing a little when you realise his knee is healing right on schedule. 

_Miya Osamu is known for his aggressive-style play on the field and his rather soft disposition off the field._

Osamu watches you poke around his knee, then later his apartment, tidying up, straightening cushions, washing a few glasses. He sighs, wondering who on the team was paying you extra to baby him like this. You’ve always been a bit of a hardass, pushing the players around like they were chess pieces in your publicity game, but he’s always complied. Maybe it’s your grit or maybe it’s your good heart he can sense underneath everything? Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re a marketing genius and have promoted the team into being one of the most popular sports teams in the country. 

His lucrative brand deals and cushy lifestyle certainly have you to thank. 

“Oh, right,” you mention as an afterthought, taking a seat beside him after brewing tea for the two of you, “I’ve got a gala in about a week I need you to attend. So I’m happy to see your knee is healing nicely.” 

Osamu rolls his eyes at the thought of a stuffy evening spent out with brown nosing sycophants. He’d much rather eat and sleep until he was ready to go back out into the field. But you had other ideas, you always had other ideas, shuttling him off into various brand deals and signing events and galas. You always said:

“Osamu,” this is also said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You’re my most popular player. I need you out there for the sake of the team.” 

Out there, he thinks with a scoff. You don’t mean out in the field, you mean out in front of the cameras. He doesn’t need popularity. He wants to play the sport he loves with the people he loves; but this is an industry. Where there is an industry, there are cogs in the machine and certainly the publicity and money-making arm is a rather big one. It is how they get people to continue to watch their matches after all. 

The ugliest side of this whole machine is when you told him he’d be more desirable as a taken man. That with a superstar on his arm, his own star quality would shoot through the roof. And he’s seen the results of your meddling- his name peddled in gossip magazines, yes, but also people speculating about what he’s going to wear, eyes on him and the team. 

With possibly the lowest bit of effort he could exert, he had begun a series of flings with models and actresses who were all too happy to be seen by his side. Except, he made it clear he was not expecting anything from them, nor were they to expect anything from him. Publicity, publicity, publicity, that’s all this was. 

There were a few who took it in their stride, who remained friends with him after the split, who appreciated the boost to their own careers. There were some who resented him for using them despite his upfront admission of the very same before the fling. And there were some, like his most recent fling, who believed he loved them, and got upset when their feelings went unreciprocated. 

“By the way,” you mention, gulping down the dregs of your tea, “You’ll need a date for this gala. Go ask one of your girlfriends.” 

The urge to bite back that he doesn’t have a girlfriend, at least not anymore, is suppressed when he realises how hard you’re working for him, for the team, to keep the money coming in so they can continue doing what they love. Besides, there’s no malice in your eyes. Only a genuine expectation of him. 

“You need to stop treating them like they’re disposable, you know,” you chide him, recalling the girlfriend who walked out on him moments ago, “Some day you’re going to be in love with one of them and I won’t clean up your messes.” 

“I doubt it,” Osamu rolls his eyes, “Not my type anyways.” 

“What is your type?” You ask, unable to help yourself. 

“Dunno, someone chill? Definitely not someone who keeps harping in my ear to smile for the cameras,” he reaches over and flicks your forehead gently. 

“I only do that for your sake,” you remind him, “Which reminds me. Patch things up with that woman. Bring her to the gala. Make sure you get your suit dry cleaned. Shave, brush your hair, don’t wear too much cologne.” 

“Anythin’ else?” He asks dryly. 

You shake your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

_He’s one of the leading scorers for Inarizaki FBC, a driving force behind the team’s 2.5 goals-per-game average._

Osamu dialed his ex after you left. She picked up, shouted obscenities at him and hung up. That was not a bridge he was repairing anytime soon. He was fresh out of options. He had also texted a couple of his friendlier exes, but they were either busy or unwilling to be seen with their famous ex-boyfriend for just a night. And he understood where they were coming from, but he needed to get this done for you. 

He was a liability to his team and to his management so long as he was out, and if he was able to dress up for a night and make nice with the big shots of the sporting world, then so be it. He would try. If attending this ridiculous fundraising gala was a way to help everyone out and possibly bring in sponsors for the team, then so be it. He would try. 

He was growing frustrated. With himself, with this damn injury, with the press and with the public. Why couldn’t he just rest? Why did he have to maintain an image of a public figure off the field? As far as he was concerned, his job ended when the whistle blew. He knew that there was more than just the sport getting into professional sports, but sometimes he felt like it was a bit excessive.

Still, he knew that everyone had their part to play in the machine so that the club could keep running. 

You knock on his door just after lunchtime, bringing in an iced coffee for him from his favourite cafe. He accepts the drink with a ‘thank you’.

“How’s your progress with the date going?” You ask, facing him.

He doesn’t want to meet what he knows to be your disappointed eyes, “Non-existent. My ex hung up on me. None of my other exes are free.” 

You sigh, “That’s probably for the best. It wouldn’t look good for you to show up to such an important event with an ex-girlfriend. Anyone new we can debut at the gala?” 

He shakes his head. He doesn’t make the effort to date anyone new because he doesn’t like having to keep up with his revolving door of girlfriends. It’s a front for everyone, with only him and his girlfriends knowing the rotten core inside. That he’s doing all of this to please his hardworking publicist, who needs him dancing to her tune so she can work her magic and make money for the team. 

So he pretends and pretends to be a desirable bachelor, to play the part of a heartthrob, when really he couldn’t be bothered to do more than show up for practice on time and eat and sleep well.

“Nope,” he bites the inside of his cheek, hoping you’d take the hint and not force it on him. 

“Fine,” you sigh, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Please have some good news for me.” 

A reliable player, Miya Osamu debuted in the 2015-16 season. He’s been a staple of the J1 League ever since. 

True to your word, you come by the next day, already querying him about his date for the gala as soon as you walk through the door. A sudden idea strikes him, as he contemplates just telling you the truth again.

“I’m tired of dating women who aren’t interested in me,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

You expertly dodge him, turning to face him. You don’t look impressed by his change in tactics. 

“Would you be my date for the gala?” He asks. 

You look ready to deny him, the rejection on the tip of your tongue, but he gives you his best pleading stare. He knows batting his eyelashes will be overkill so he tries to convince you with his sincerity instead. There is genuine sincerity in his eyes, as he does want you to be the date on his arm for the gala. He already knows you and gets along with you, there’s no need to pretend to go on a date with another model or actress he doesn’t really care for. No one would blink an eye if they saw him out with his publicist, since it was literally your job to be with him whenever he was in front of the cameras, being paraded around like a showpiece for the Inarizaki FBC. 

“Osamu,” your refusal appears, “I can’t be your date.” 

“Why not?” He presses, insistent. 

“Because,” you flounder around for an answer. 

“Because what? There’s nothing wrong if you are my date for the evening. No one will say anything because everyone knows yer my publicist.” 

“Yes, but, it would be better for you to show up with someone famous. Someone with a good reputation. Not your unknown publicist. And you literally just broke up with your ex” 

“But it’s precisely because yer my unknown publicist that yer perfect for this!” He says with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It makes your cheeks warm. 

“How so?” You stand your ground.

“Well,” he starts listing things off, counting them on his fingers, “One, we know each other so it won’t be painful. Two, yer get to let loose for the night. Three, I don’t have to go on a date with someone I don’t care for. Four, I’m so tired of being in relationships; with ya it’s nothin’ serious, so I’d be able to relax for the night.” 

“Osamu,” you sigh, feeling your resolve crumble a little. 

He goes in for the kill. “Please, Y/N. Yer the only one I can ask to do this. And I don’t have a date. Ya know how important my image is.” 

You give him a sharp look, tightening your arms around yourself. 

“Fine, but we’ll set some ground rules.”

“For one night?” He blinks. 

“Yes,” you insist “We need to be professional.” 

“Fine,” he sighs. “Rules. Let me have ‘em.”

“No kissing, no touching below the shoulder. My arms are okay. And we make it clear that we’re there as friends, okay? And if anyone asks, we’re friends. I don’t want people to know that I’m your publicist.” 

“Okay,” Osamu agrees. This was a little easier than he expected. 

He had no intention of kissing or touching you anyways, since you’re about as close to him as his other teammates. Sure he considers you a friend, and yes he does find you attractive (not that he’s thought about it before when he had to meet you in your office for a one-on-one meeting about one of his endorsements), but that’s all there is to it. Keeping you at an arm’s length will be easy when you’re already firmly rooted in the ground there. 

He makes a couple inquiries about your dress so he can match his tie accordingly and the two of you finalise some plans for the gala- where to meet, what time to arrive and so on. He can tell you’re the slightest bit uneasy about going to the gala, so he does feel the slightest bit guilty.

“Yer really alright with bein’ my date?” He asks, fingers circling your wrist. 

Your eyes dart to where his hand is, heated stare remaining fixed there until he releases his grip.

“I suppose I have no choice.” 

“Y/N,” he calls to you when you head out, “I really appreciate yer help. I promise I won’t make yer regret the night.” 

**MIYA OSAMU TO MAKE HIS FIRST PUBLIC APPEARANCE IN MONTHS AT J1 LEAGUE CHARITY GALA**

**BY Akaashi Keiji, Sports Correspondent**

_The J1 League Charity Gala has always been a highlight on the sports calendar. All the soccer stars come out for a night of merrymaking and socialising. No arrival is more anticipated than Miya Osamu, who’s known for bringing his flame of the month with him, making each year an event not to be missed!_

Osamu arranges for a nice sleek black car to bring the two of you to the gala. He knows that you’re especially busy, coordinating with all the other players and their dates and their sponsors to even think about yourself, so he handles it for you. He gets his suit pressed the way you instructed him to, styles his hair, spritzes on the appropriate amount of cologne. He chews a breath mint, rolls any lint off his clothes and heads out. 

He’s driving this evening, so he heads by your place a little early. He insisted on picking you up, as much of a gentleman as he could be in spite of the circumstances. 

You wait at the lobby of your apartment building, tapping your foot impatiently. Osamu’s mouth goes dry when he sees how you’re dressed, in a champagne floor-length dress, tapping your neutral coloured heels on the pavement. Your phone is in your hand as you furiously type something out.

“Hey,” he says quietly, startling you.

You jump out of your skin, covering your heart with a hand. “Let’s go.”

He walks you over to his car, opening his door so you can step inside. He wants to comment on how you look, to tell you that you look nice, but you’re preoccupied. There’s a frown set on your face as you type away on your phone. He knows better than to ask what’s wrong, because there’s probably some media manager or some outreach person from some brand being a pain in the ass right now and you don’t need him to stick his nose in where he’d be of no help.

“Sorry,” you sigh, putting your phone in your purse, “You know how things get before these events.” 

He nods, having a vague idea. Usually, while he was carted off to meet everyone at these events, you’d stand in the corner, constantly exchanging emails or combing through the crowd for people he needed to meet. He wondered if you’d ever gotten a chance to enjoy these events. For as much as he hated them, he could admit that the food was good. And he got to meet his friends from the other teams. 

Even tonight, you seem extremely occupied with other things. 

“Ya should relax,” he suggests. “Those emails can wait for tomorrow.”

“No they can’t,” you laugh, “But I suppose you’re right. I’ll take it easy tonight.” 

“Good,” Osamu smiles. 

“You look nice, Osamu,” you say, eyeing him approvingly.

His tongue is tied and he scrambles to compliment you back, but you cut him off. 

“I’m sure we’ll impress the sponsors tonight.” 

“Yeah,” he swallows, “the sponsors.” 

You give him a cheeky look, “And maybe make your ex jealous.”

That earns you a chuckle from him. The two of you arrive at the venue shortly after. 

Osamu tries a move- his brother always drilled it into his head that this was a surefire way to impress a girl. He recalls Atsumu saying that girls loved it when men put their arm around the passenger seat as they parked or reversed. He did just that, sneaking a quick glance to catch your reaction. You utterly ignore him, once again transfixed on some email on your phone. Osamu rolls his eyes, parking his car. 

“We’re here,” he informs.

“Oh!” You blink, wiping your palms on your dress, “Let’s go.” 

Osamu opens your car door, offering his arm, but you climb out and start marching towards the entrance, ignoring him. He has to walk briskly to keep up with your determined stride. Catching up with you just before you hit the entrance to the gala venue, he plucks your hand and tucks it in the crook of his elbow, ignoring the curious look you give him. 

As soon as you’re through the large double doors, Osamu steers you over to where the rest of the team is. He knows you’ll eventually drag him away to socialise and mingle with the other guests, but he wants to start off the night with people he cares for. 

The team welcomes the both of you with jovial smiles, a little surprised that you were the one to come with Osamu, not his girlfriend.

“We broke up,” he explains to the curious eyes, “And Y/N insisted I bring a date, so I thought I’d go with her.” 

You allow him to make small talk with his team for a bit, scanning your eyes across the crowd. There are a couple of sponsors here tonight that you wanted Osamu to talk to, as well as a few sponsors for some of the other team members to meet. When the clock strikes Seven, you whisk Osamu away to meet with the other guests. 

“Already?” He whines.

“The guest list is pretty star studded this year,” you reply, pushing him towards one of the sponsors, the owner of one of the biggest sporting apparel chains in Japan. A satisfied smirk creeps on your face when you watch the way the man enthusiastically receives Osamu, clearly excited to have this opportunity to talk to the sports star. 

Folding your arms, you venture around the venue for a little bit, hoping to see who else would be willing to talk to one of the players on your team. Maybe you could work out a new sponsorship deal?

You accidentally bump into a player from another team, who looks down at you in scorn. Before you can apologise, he interrupts you.

“I see you’re here with Miya Osamu,” he says, voice as smooth as silk. 

You nod.

“You’re the plainest one in his lineup of girlfriends,” he comments. “What do you do? Don’t think I’ve seen you in anything.”

“I’m his friend,” you bite your tongue, recalling that the two of you were here as friends, not as his publicist and he as your client. 

“Well,” his voice drips like poison, beady eyes raking over your figure, “It’s no wonder you’re nothing more. A little mouse like you has no place in the big leagues.” 

Osamu chooses that exact moment to walk over and interject, cutting in with a polite smile. When he inquires on what just transpired, all he gets from you is a tight-lipped smile. 

“I was having a conversation,” you say. 

“You can be honest,” says the player, “I told her to be careful. A weak little thing like her doesn’t belong here.”

Before you can tug his arm and pull him away, Osamu bristles and claps the shoulder of the player, hard. 

“I suggest yer don’t go around sayin’ such horrible things about people ya barely know. She’s got more courage in her fingernail than ya do in yer entire body. Leave her alone.”

The player, clearly offended, walks away. You turn to Osamu, frustration brewing in your eyes.

“Why did you do that?” You ask. “He could be an important asset to us and-”

“Not when he’s an asshole, and especially not when he’s an asshole to ya.” Osamu’s brows are furrowed. 

You want to comment further, but secretly, you’re relieved. He was getting on your nerves, though it’s not like you hadn’t had to deal with such insolence before. You did work in sports after all, meeting outspoken chauvinistic loudmouths was unfortunately a common occurrence. 

“We should get outta here,” Osamu suggests, eyes fixed on the exit.

You vehemently oppose his suggestion. The night barely began. There was so much left to do, so many more people to meet, arrangements to set up. But Osamu is determined, calling out a quick goodbye over his shoulder to his teammates. His steady hand is pressed between your shoulder blades, steering you right out through the door. You barely manage a glance at the other guests inside before you’re being brought to the parking lot.

“Sorry about that,” Osamu sighs, “I just hate bein’ at those events.”

He loosens his bow tie with a finger, ruffling his hair with his hand. He huffs back in the seat of his car, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

“I know how hard ya worked,” he says softly, a sort of tender admission, genuinely conveying his appreciation for all your effort, “But I got so angry hearin’ what he said to ya. And I heard it all, Y/N, yer don’t have to pretend.” 

“It’s okay,” you deflate against your seat, “I’m used to it.” 

He looks genuinely surprised, turning to face you with wide eyes. 

“Osamu,” you explain gently, “I am a woman and I work in an administrative position for a sports team. I have encountered my fair share of assholes in my job here. He’s said nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“But yer shouldn’t have t’deal with that,” Osamu says quietly, meeting your eyes, “Why don’t ya tell any of us?”

“I’m used to fighting my own battles. I don’t need you or the boys to come to my defence everytime someone makes an off-colour remark. What would that say about me?” 

“I never thought about it like that,” he’s astounded. 

“Well,” you pat his shoulder, “Now you know.”

“Y/N,” he says very seriously, “I’m going to bring yer to my favourite late-night dessert place. They make the best milkshakes and it always lifts my mood to have ‘em. Let’s get outta here, and we can have some real fun. Forget about entitled assholes, I’ll make this night worth yer while.”

“I think we should be heading back inside.”

“I don’t think so,” Osamu protests, starting his engine. 

Osamu ignores your weak protests, driving you to his aforementioned dessert spot. When you exit the car, you realise how overdressed the two of you are for what is really a cafe that opens late. Osamu leads you to a table in the back, ignoring the stares from the two other patrons. He walks up to the counter and orders you a chocolate milkshake, getting a berry flavoured one for himself. 

“This is really absurd,” you comment, when the glass is placed in front of you. 

“Why?” He asks around his straw.

“Because, we’re sitting here in formal clothes after basically running away from a gala I spent months preparing for.” 

“I said I was sorry,” he pouts. He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm.

“I never said I was angry,” you laugh, “Because this milkshake is really good.”

He beams after that, taking out his phone to show you some recipes he’s recreated at home. In your years of working and knowing Osamu, never has his culinary ability ever been brought up. Leaning forward to get a better glimpse at his phone, you nearly knock heads with him. Immediately, you pull back, intentionally keeping a safe distance between the two of you. 

When he looks at you inquisitorially, you remind him that you’re a professional. That you do not want to destroy any barriers by getting too close with him, and that ultimately, you’re here as friends. Osamu gives you a flat stare.

“I know we’re professionals,” he sighs tiredly, “Ya don’t need to keep remindin’ me.”

“Well, I’m at risk of being photographed with you, and we wouldn’t want that.” 

Osamu hums, for a moment in thought, before turning a shrewd eye to you. “Hey, Y/N, you ever had a chance to relax in these past few years?” 

You blink in confusion, raking your mind for moments where you managed to relax. Your mind comes to a blank- maybe when you had followed the boys overseas for a photoshoot? No, that was still work. 

“I’m just sayin’,” Osamu leans back in the chair, ignorant of the mental havoc he’s just caused you, “Yer should take some time for yerself. Go out, maybe on a date?” 

You cup your cool palms to your heated cheeks and nod. Though you feel a little flustered, you know that Osamu’s just doing this for your sake, not to embarrass you. 

“I should,” you say softly, tracing the patterns in the wooden table, “Go out on a date.”

“Yeah,” Osamu mumbles quietly, not meeting your eyes. 

**MIYA OSAMU RETURNS TO THE J1 LEAGUE FOR THE NEW SEASON**

**By. Akaashi Keiji, Sports Correspondent**

_In Inarizaki FBC’s kickoff match of the season, the player is back in his starting position._

Osamu was only really out for another month after the gala that night. You had continued to visit him, thankfully noticing the absence of noisy girlfriends, which made your visits far less painful. Osamu was then shuttled off to physical training so he could get reacquainted with the sport after all his months off. You weren’t there for the most part, held up in your office working on promotional materials for the upcoming sports season.

A faint knock on your door and Osamu peeks his head through. You ask him to come in, offering him the seat across your desk. He’s freshly showered after practise, in a thin t-shirt and a pair of pants, leaning his sinewy biceps on the table while you pull up some files from your laptop.

“Here are the photos from the gala night,” you titter excitedly, sliding your laptop towards him.

In the picture, Osamu’s talking to a sponsor, eyes bright and a big smile on his face. Your back is turned to the camera, the champagne colour of your dress catching in the light just so. But since you’re in the corner of the frame, you just zoom and crop the picture so you’re no longer in it.

Osamu makes a soft whine at the back of his throat when he realises what you’ve done, almost unconsciously as he knits his brows together minutely. You explain to him that you’re not needed in the photograph, especially since you two just went as friends. Osamu chews his lip and nods, thanking you for the photos. 

He gives you a fleeting glance as he leaves, the tips of his fingers lingering on your door a little longer than necessary. 

Osamu pops by your office a lot more after that. At first, it starts off with him wanting more publicity work or wanting to be more involved in the process. It slowly transitions into thinly-disguised attempts at wanting to spend time with you. He’s content to sit in your office to watch you work, a mental reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the gym he claims. You don’t really mind, because you often have something for him to go through- like a script or a concept for one of his campaigns. 

You’ve begun to see Osamu in a different light lately, especially after the gala. You always knew he had a softer personality than what he showed the cameras, but you never realised how deep his heart went. After he defended you and brought you away from the gala to decompress, you realise Osamu is dedicated and kind. And his hidden soft side, with the cute food pictures and the soft stares he gives you when he thinks you aren’t looking; it makes your heart warm. Like a soft flame, it slowly and steadily burns for Osamu. 

_Fans are excited to see Miya Osamu’s long-awaited return as he left mid-season last year._

The weeks pass with Osamu bringing himself to your office for inane reasons, spending time with you until you get off work. At some point, Osamu realises that he just wants to spend time with you. That night at the gala and after, he realised how amazing you are. How strong and captivating and cheeky and he wanted to know more of you than the hardass you always presented to the team. 

You’ve always got this cute frown of concentration on your face when you work, typing away at your computer or talking on the phone to someone. And Osamu can’t help but openly stare when you’re not looking because you’re so captivating. He’s begun to appreciate your dedication more and more, despite his reluctance to be the face of the FBC. 

“Osamu,” you call out to him, packing your bag as you get ready to leave work.

“Yeah?” he looks up from a script for his new ad. Except, he wasn’t actually reading so much as he was stealing surreptitious glances at you while he worked. 

“Thanks for spending time with me,” you give him a cheeky smile, “I really appreciate it, even though I know you’ve been stuck reading that page for twenty minutes.” 

His cheeks go pink. He’s been caught. He tries to come up with an explanation, wiping his damp palms on his sweatpants, but you give him a laugh, squeezing his shoulder as you exit his office. 

_His return will be in a match against Karasuno FBC._

One evening, after his training is completed, Osamu makes the usual trek up to your office. This time, however, you’ve summoned him because there was a sponsor he had to meet next week, so you wanted to brief him on the meeting. 

You’re dressed in a nice blouse and skirt today, and you even have some makeup on. Your lips are a sort of berry colour, which Osamu ends up staring at for a moment longer than he should. 

“Here,” you say, tucking some papers under his arm. Normally, you’d take the time to explain everything to him but it seems like you’re in a rush to go somewhere. 

“I’ve got a date,” you smile brightly, and you look so, so happy, “I’ve got a date because you told me I needed to loosen up more. So, here I am.” 

You continue to move through your office like a hurricane, putting things away and packing your bag, “I’m leaving now. I’ve got everything you need to know on those papers- who, what, where and when. Read through them and let me know if you have any questions. I’ll probably get back to you later tonight!” 

Patting his arm, you leave, barely even remembering to turn off the light behind you. 

Osamu stares at your retreating figure, wondering why it felt like he was just punched in the gut. 

When he gets home and fixes himself an elaborate dinner to get his mind off the weird emotions he was feeling, he reminds himself to text you about the notes you gave him. If only to let you know that he read them. 

With a sigh, he sits down on his sofa and begins thumbing through the sheets of paper. As expected, your meticulous attention to detail has landed him with a comprehensive and organised set of notes. And at the end, you’ve stuck a post-it with a note of thanks for his advice. That you were evolving into a new you. 

He frowns; he likes you as you are. 

_I read the notes. They were rly comprehensive, thank u_

_How’d the date go_

He doesn’t receive a reply. 

The next morning, he reports to work, feeling a little cranky. He’s been a little offended you didn’t reply, wondering what could keep you from your phone, especially where it concerned your job which you were so meticulous about. He does not want to imagine that it’s your date; you were too much of a professional that you kept to a certain bedtime on work nights and surely you would have replied by then, right? 

He sees you conversing with one of his teammates, Ojiro Aran, going through an event programme with him. Aran sees him and greets him with an easy smile and a wave. You do the same. Osamu gives you both a small wave, intending on walking past but you call him back.

“Did you go through the notes?” You ask him, smiling expectantly. 

“I did. I texted you about it,” he states.

You blink in surprise, fishing out your phone from your pocket. You scroll through your messages, clicking on your chat with him.

“Oh, I must have missed it,” you laugh it off, asking him if he had any questions.

“No,” he replies, a little surly, “How was your date?”

“Good! He’s really sweet and I had a great time. I should take dating advice from the serial playboy a little more!” You punch his shoulder, walking back to his office.

Osamu’s mouth is pressed in a firm line. Aran laughs and accuses him of running away from his reputation as a playboy. But Osamu knows that it’s not the playboy bit that’s got him uncomfortable. Your admission that you were happy, made him upset. And that made him uncomfortable, because he wanted you to be happy and he was the one who encouraged you to go out and let your hair down. But he doesn’t want your happiness to come about like this. 

Is this jealousy? 

He thinks about when he was a child and Atsumu received a bike for his birthday while Osamu didn’t. Or when Atsumu got top marks on a test neither of them studied for. And he realises how he’s felt the same way then that he’s feeling now. Like he wants something he doesn’t have, like he’s looking at someone get the thing he wants.

But you’re not a thing, you’re a person. A person, who, beneath all her stubborn layers, is sweet and funny and kind and is so much better than some of the girlfriends he’s had because you like him for him and not for his name. You like Osamu, who likes to eat and who has chocolate milkshakes and likes to go the gym in the mornings, not Miya Osamu, who’s got a number ‘11’ on his back and millions of dollars sitting in his bank and a name worth about just as much. 

And though his heart yearns to chase after you, he still respects you to know that you wouldn’t like to date any of your players. You’re a devout professional, to date him would go against your principles. He wouldn’t push you over his little crush. 

**MIYA OSAMU SCORES PERSONAL BEST OF SEASON**

**BY. Akaashi Keiji, Deputy Sports Editor**

_Since his explosive return to the J1 League, Miya Osamu has once again captured the attention of fans with a whopping 3 goals in his match against Shiratorizawa FBC._

Osamu has sat on his feelings for you, ignoring them the way you would do to the dust on top of your bookshelf; he knows it’s there and that it will accumulate but he chooses to ignore it for the time being. But Osamu has (mis)placed his confidence in believing that if he doesn’t do anything about his lingering feelings, they won’t fester and grow and he won’t feel the urge to be near you, to hold you, grow stronger. 

He feels like a schoolboy sitting next to you in the car on the way to some photoshoot he has to be at, hand twitching to hold yours, which rests on the seat cushions between the two of you. He observes your profile from the corner of his eye, your concentration as you reply to an email or your serene expression as you gaze out of the window. 

On your way back from a photoshoot with him, you receive a text which makes your whole countenance shut down. You tuck your phone in your pocket, planting your gaze outside the window and avoiding Osamu’s. Your chin rests on your hand. 

He pokes your arm. 

“What?” You look back at him, voice shaky. 

“Who was that?” He asks, tilting his chin towards your phone.

“No one,” you snap. Your eyes widen as you realize your tone, your hand covering your mouth. 

“It’s the boyfriend, isn’t it,” Osamu needles you.

“Yes,” you hiss, “Happy? We’re in a bit of a rough patch.” 

“What did he do? Don’t give me that look, I know it’s not yer fault.” 

“He thinks I have feelings for someone else,” you whisper, looking at your lap. 

“Do ya?” He presses.

You give him a hard stare, like you’re willing him to understand something. But Osamu doesn’t pick up on what you’re trying to communicate so he stares back.

“Nevermind,” you sigh. 

He puts up a strong performance season alongside teammates like Ojiro Aran and Suna Rintarou.

His latest game ended in total victory. He pumps his fists in the air, walking towards the shower rooms with adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. He wants to go talk to you about his performance, maybe offer to bring you out to dinner since he knew you had your hands tied the past couple of weeks. 

And he heard you broke up with your boyfriend. You came to work with puffy eyes and Osamu suddenly swore he wanted to hurt your boyfriend for upsetting you, when all you did was give your all to your relationship. A traitorous part of him was relieved, because he knew this was his opportunity to shoot his shot; literally. 

Instead, he overhears a hushed conversation in your office, talking to one of the higher-ups in management.

“I believe a transfer to the administrative office might be better for me,” you explain, “rather than working with the players directly.” 

The image of the gleaming glass office building floods his mind, nestled in the heart of the city and away from him, over the little office you had within their stadium itself, along with some of the other staff. 

“Is there a reason?” Your boss asks.

“Some personal issues have popped up which really makes me feel like I’m not doing my job efficiently and I-”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Osamu bursts through the door like the hero of a rom-com. 

“Miya,” your boss tries to placate, “I know that the two of you are friendly, but this is a private conversation.”

“I’m the one yer like, right? Yer boyfriend dumped ya because yer had feelin’s for me, right?” Osamu marches over to you.

Your boss looks more amused than anything, while you look mortified. 

“I’m wonderin’ how you can quit before ya even gave me a chance!” Osamu takes your hands. “Yer can’t give up on us when we’ve barely even tried!” 

“I’ll let you sort this out,” your boss escapes the scene.

“Osamu,” you sigh, “I just don’t think it’s proper for me to date a player and I-” 

“So ya planned to leave?” 

“No, well, yes, but-”

“Stay. Please, I love ya.” Osamu pleads, cupping your face.

“Okay,” you sigh, giving him a small smile, wrapping your hands around his wrists. “I’ll stay.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this was for a tumblr collab! find me @/forgetou


End file.
